


Many Happy Returns (An Old Hypothesis)

by TheUltracheese



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-29 21:47:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20089279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheUltracheese/pseuds/TheUltracheese
Summary: These days, I think of Sherlock as pseudofeminist gaybaiting shiny schlock (apologies to continued fans; I still clearly hold a candle, if uncomfortably, given that I am sharing this). But I used to be obsessed with it. And in the famously long, fandom-defining wait between seasons two and three, after “The Reichenbach Fall,” when the few scraps of information we knew included the tidbits that Sherlock would be John’s best man and that there would be an episode (a mini-episode, it would turn out) entitled “Many Happy Returns,” my fevered brain produced the following.Note in case you haven’t attended a wedding before: there’s a tradition where ppl clink champagne glasses as a kind of call for the newlyweds to kiss.





	Many Happy Returns (An Old Hypothesis)

Sherlock stood up and assumed the microphone from Mary’s maid of honor. John felt his stomach sour. Mary glanced at him and smiled, grasping his hand.

“You’re not supposed to get cold feet for this part,” she whispered. He chuckled, but the laugh did not reach his eyes.

“Thank you for that touching speech, Emily. Now, ladies and gentlemen, may I ask you all to take a moment and observe how resplendent these two creatures are?”

The room filled with applause as Sherlock gestured to the bride and groom. Lestrade and Anderson were in the back, banging on their champagne glasses with forks like ten-year-olds. John could have killed them. He gave Mary a simple kiss on the lips, praying this part would soon be over.

“I believe,” began Sherlock in the liquid voice he used to address the press (or what John called his ‘simpleton voice’) “that it is customary for the best man to impart some words of wisdom to the happy couple. Having had John as a flatmate for two years, I am in a unique position to warn Mary of exactly what she is in for.”

Mary leaned in to John's shoulder and playfully pinched his cheek before kissing him. Lestrade and Anderson were at it again. John displayed a good natured grin while white-knuckling the seat beneath him with his left hand. The wedding ring, new and strange feeling, pressed into his finger uncomfortably.

Sherlock continued.

“Mary: your beloved husband does not care for shoes. Or socks, for that matter. Years of army-issue boots did nothing for his ingrown toenail problem, so expect blisters and fungus, and expect them to be propped up on your coffee table.” The room filled with laughter. John nodded with a small chuckle and raised his hand as if to admit guilt. This was good. Light and fluffy. As long as Sherlock stayed light and fluffy, things were on course.

“As we all know, John is a doctor. But he has also spent most of his adult life as a bachelor. The result is that John can suture any wound and set any bone, but he remains remarkably unimpressed by the germ theory of disease when it comes to week-old Chinese takeaway.” More laughs. “Do not let him fool you, however. Through endless repetition, John Watson has mastered the fry-up; and he looks terribly cute in an apron.

Half the guests coo'd while the other half giggled; Anderson and Lestrade, however, catcalled. Good god, how drunk were they?

“Now, Mary: a serious word of advice.” John felt his belly clench. “Your husband makes four kinds of tea: relaxed tea, bored tea, dutiful afternoon tea, and angry tea. If the pot is not pre-warmed and the sugar bowl is missing, you need to make time for a little tête-à-tête.”

Mary whispered into John's ear, “Guess he wouldn't know about the morning after tea, then?” John went bright red and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. It wasn't going so badly after all.

“Now.” Sherlock cleared his throat and paused. “As for Mary.” Another pause. John felt the wedding ring dig once again into his finger. “I've only known Ms. Morston for a handful of months. In that time, I have deduced the following three things about her character. One: she keeps an appallingly untidy handbag. It's like a Boy Scout's rucksack in there: bandages, maps, a toothbrush; oh, a tactical folding knife” (in a lower voice: “good luck explaining that to Transport for London”); protein bars, extra shoes, and a GPS.” He paused, ostensibly for the ripple of laughter that followed Mary’s sheepish shoulder shrug, but for the briefest of moments John thought he saw Sherlock forensically scanning his bride’s face. “I even found a box of ten chemical hand-warmers in there once,” Sherlock continued. “If I were John, I would be worried; it appears his wife is ready to make an escape to the Nordic countryside at any moment.”

Mary was shaking her head left to right, her face aglow with laughter and mock offense. “Not fair!” she weakly protested. “I don’t make fun of you for what you keep in your fridge!”

“Two,” Sherlock barreled on: “Mary will slap you for looking through her handbag. Hard.” Sherlock pasted a rakish smile on his face as the room erupted into a combination of laughter and cathartic cheers at this partial self-acknowledgement of his own insufferable nature. John felt a surge of appreciation for this little bit of dinner theatre. He knew that Sherlock hated to be laughed at, even when it was all in good fun. Sherlock waited for the room to quiet down, and as soon as it did, the smile evaporated. 

“And finally, my third deduction: Mary Morstan has a secret.”

This time, John felt Mary tighten up under his arm as well. Sherlock had slipped into his puzzling voice. John stared intently at his dubious choice of Best Man, and to his dismay Sherlock turned and stared right back at John without letting up, as if they were speaking in a room alone together.

“I cannot locate its source: drugs? Hypnosis? Occult magic? Whatever it is, the effects are undeniable.” Sherlock opened up to the room again, but his voice remained grave. “I have spent years studying John Watson. What makes him tick, what irritates him, what gets him out of bed in the morning. And I do not know what Mary’s secret is.” He ground his teeth. “But she makes John the happiest that I have ever seen him.”

The room let out a collective romantic sigh and broke into prolonged applause. Sherlock returned his gaze to John, speaking underneath the cheers. “I envy her for that.” John stared at his friend, bewildered to see him slip a finger into his starched collar and clear his throat.

“Now, everyone,” Sherlock turned on his brightest fake smile and winked at the guests, “a toast!” The room buzzed with noises of approval, guests raising champaign glasses to the air in anticipation. Anderson, however, heavily clinked his glass against Lestrade’s and the two downed their champagne immediately. A scandalized Mrs. Hudson hissed “Boys!” from two tables over.

“To Mary and John: May you have no need of happy returns.”


End file.
